“Ye needn’t worry after me,” Faye waved her hand. It was a dismissive gesture she figured Moiré would ignore. “I’m sure ye’ve better things to do.”
Moiré put a staying hand to Faye’s forearm. It was all Faye could do to keep from jerking away from the wicked woman. Faye had used attraction and her own sexuality to manipulate people for years, but never once had she done so to inflict harm. Not like Moiré, who wielded her sweetness, with endearing platitudes and ready trust, in the cruelest of weapons.
Moiré smiled. “What would possibly require my attention more than aiding my cousin’s wife?” There was an underlying bitterness to her words. Had it always been there, and Faye had not noticed it?
“I need to speak with Monroe,” Faye said. “To ready plans for me to depart.”
“I’ll speak with him for ye,” Moiré said affectionately.
It was as Faye had expected. Still, confirming Moiré would try to block any opportunity Faye used to notify someone was like a blow. Which was why she’d come up with another plan.
“I confess,” Faye said. “I’d hoped to go to the cottage where Ewan is. I want to confront him.”
Moiré hesitated, and Faye could practically hear her thoughts shifting how a change of location might work to her advantage.
At least in this way, Faye could get to Ewan, to find some way to help him. And get to a servant who could tell Monroe about the note.
“Of course,” Moiré replied at last. “Though we ought to hurry if we plan to catch him.”
She and Moiré rushed to the stables to gather their horses once more. As anticipated, they didn’t see a single person on the short trek. But the stable lad was there. Also, as anticipated.
“I’ve left a missive on my husband’s desk,” Faye said to the boy. “See to it that Monroe gets it immediately.”
The boy nodded.
Moiré’s stare darted to Faye.
Faye offered an apologetic smile. “I simply told Monroe about Ewan’s infidelity and my desire to leave. I’d written it before ye said ye’d handle it for me.”
“I’m sorry ’tis come to this,” Moiré said with such affected sorrow that it almost made Faye second guess her assumptions.
But nay. She’d seen the handwriting with her own eyes. It had truly been different. And mayhap Ewan was not in danger, but if he were, at least it would be a way to save him.
They rode out to the village in silence. All the while, Faye’s mind raced with scenarios. What would happen if she were attacked? Or if Ewan were already dead?
Or if there truly were an affair, and Ewan and Blair were meeting for a tryst?
The horses were no longer tethered at the cottage when Faye and Moiré arrived. But before Moiré could try to turn her horse back toward the castle, Faye dismounted and rushed into the cottage. Her stomach twisted into anxious knots over what she might find.
She pushed through the door and stopped. The odor of blood rushed to greet her. A massive dark stain had spread over the hard-packed floor. The hut was empty, but it was obvious someone had been there. And someone had been killed.
She staggered inside and caught herself against the rough wall. On the opposite side of the home, highlighted in a slice of sunlight streaming in from the open door, was a bloody handprint smeared against the dingy whitewash.
The door slammed closed, plunging the hut into near darkness, save for the light limning the broken shutters.
Faye spun around, her whole world whirling with shock. “What’s happened to him?”
A sob choked out of Moiré.
“Where is he?” Faye asked. “What have ye done?”
“I’m sorry,” Moiré’s face crumpled. “’Twas my da.”
Faye shook her head, not understanding.
“He wants the chieftainship,” Moiré said amid her tears.
“What’s happened to Ewan?” Faye demanded. Her words reverberated off the stark walls and echoed back to her.
Moiré put her face in her hands, and Faye took a step closer to better hear her. Fast as lightning, Moiré withdrew a blade from her sleeve and shoved it to Faye’s stomach while pressing at her lower back with her other hand.
Faye froze, at the mercy of the madwoman. If only Faye had her dagger—if only it hadn’t jabbed at her side and she hadn’t thrown it away from her. She wasn’t entirely helpless, of course. She could attack Moiré, hit her with an elbow, toss her to the ground and put a foot to her throat.
And if Faye weren’t with child, she would immediately do those things. Except there was a sharp blade at her belly. One ready to take her babe’s life before it could even be born.
“Get outside,” Moiré said in a hard voice. “And if ye so much as sigh, I’ll plunge my dagger into yer belly.”
A shudder of fear consumed Faye. She would do nothing to put her babe at risk. And so it was that she allowed Moiré to lead her from the village and through the woods. Faye walked, tripping over tree roots, her feet made clumsy by her terror—for her husband and for her babe. Moiré remained at her side with the damn dagger put to Faye’s belly. But while Faye had no idea where she was being taken, she knew one thing for certain: she would not die without putting up a fight.
Ewan tensed as the wagon drew to a stop.
The top was thrown from the crate, revealing a clear blue sky. Hands reached into the box and roughly dragged him out. They threw him downward, off the cart and to the unforgiving cobblestones below. A shadow fell over Ewan.
He looked up, squinting against the sun, to find Cruim standing over him. “This is yer fault,” his uncle accused. “If ye hadna lain with my Blair, she wouldna be dead.” A vein throbbed at the center of Cruim’s brow. His cheeks huffed out in a restrained cough. “See to his wounds and send him to the cellar. I want him alive.”
Cruim’s gaze slid to the other wooden box on the cart. One that had been meant to transport Blair, no doubt. She lay within it now. Or so Ewan presumed, dead within the other crate.
Cruim’s men came forward obediently and dragged Ewan down to the small, barred hold in the cellar of the manor. It had been meant to store dry goods, not usurp a chieftain.
One of the men stayed with Ewan and patched up the wounds with bits of linen as best he could. If nothing else, the man’s rudimentary application staunched the blood flow. Once done, the man left, abandoning Ewan to the still, dark room.
The iron-barred room was black as pitch and held a mustiness of wet earth floors and cold stone. His fate would yet be determined.
He waited thus, his eyes searching futilely against the press of darkness, his wounds aching. Time dragged on at an indeterminable rate.
They wanted him left alive.
Why?
And what of Faye? What did Moiré intend to do with her?
Footsteps approached and Ewan straightened. His hands searched in front of him, seeking out something, anything. A warm golden glow lit the empty room as someone with a light approached. All at once, the brilliance of it came into view and left Ewan’s eyes stinging with the same sensation as looking up into the sun on a particularly bright day.
Ewan grunted and staggered back with his hands thrown over his eyes.
A wheezing cough gave away the person’s identity. Cruim.
Ewan lowered his arms from blocking his face and stared just beyond the flicker of a single candle flame to where he knew his uncle’s face would be.
“Release me,” Ewan demanded, squinting.
“Ye had an affair with my wife,” Cruim spoke so passionately, a cough rose up in his chest and choked its way free. “’Tis yer fault she’s dead.”
“Ye know I dinna,” Ewan said angrily. “Moiré has been playing us all for fools. Dinna ye see it?”
“Moiré has always looked out for me,” Cruim said. “Which is more than I can say for ye.”
“What is it she’s done for ye?” Ewan’s eyes had adjusted to the light enough to meet his uncle’s gaze from between the bars.
Cruim blinked. “She’s cared for me after her mum died. She’s told me how ye’ve tried to oppress me, how even yer gift of this manor was to keep me close, to watch me even as ye threaten me.”
Ewan stared hard at him, unable to believe his ears. “I threaten ye?”
“I know about the plots.” Cruim coughed into his fist. “It was ye who made me sick. To remove me from the line of succession for the chieftainship, so yer bairns will never have a valid rival. I never even wanted the damn chieftainship.”
Ewan stared at his uncle in shock. Cruim had never been the threat. In truth, his meddling had never made sense, not when he hadn’t shown an aptitude for cleverness. It was why Ewan had discounted him so often, assuming Cruim couldn’t be conniving enough to pull off an elaborate stunt.
Ewan never had even suspected Moiré.
“I dinna ever intend ye harm,” Ewan said. “It was Moiré.”
Cruim scoffed. “She’s helped me, Ewan. She even helped my marriage with…with Blair.” He winced. “Moiré said the arrangement would help her wed Finn.” Cruim’s voice went tender with an apparent affection for his daughter. “She said doing that would secure my alliance with the Gordons and protect me from ye.” His lower lip trembled.
“Cruim,” Ewan said in an even tone. “She’s been using ye, manipulating ye as she’d done to everyone else.” He shook his head in stunned disbelief at how readily she’d fooled them all. “Even me.”
His uncle shuddered, and a cough erupted from his mouth so violently, it appeared to have surprised even him. He fell against the barred door, dragging in choked breaths as the cough overtook him.
He’d lost a considerable amount of weight recently, his arms like sticks, his shoulders slender where the doublet hung loose around them.
“Let me out, Cruim,” Ewan said. “I believe Faye to be in danger.”
Cruim’s hands curled around the rusty bars as though holding himself upright with them. “She’s no’ a good woman,” he panted. “Just like Lara.”
A chill descended down Ewan’s spine. “What about Lara?”
Memories rushed him all at once. How Moiré had been the one to see Lara teeter over the cliff before coming to him, distraught and scratched from her attempt to save her.
Lara hadn’t killed herself. Moiré had murdered her.
And if Ewan didn’t get free of his cell, he knew in his gut that Faye would also be killed.
Metal rang against metal in the distance. Ewan jerked at the discernible sound of battle. Men’s shouts rang out with alarm in the distance.
“Let me out,” Ewan demanded. “Moiré is going to try to kill Faye. The same as she did with Lara.”
“Moiré knows best,” Cruim said weakly. Another cough took him, leaving his shoulders trembling.
Spatters of blood glistened in the dirt. Whatever plagued Ewan’s uncle, it would surely kill him.
Ewan slipped his hand through the bars and jerked the keys from Cruim’s belt, along with his dagger. The older man did nothing to stop him.
Ewan tapped the key on the opposite side of the iron door, seeking the lock. It clattered inside clumsily, and he wrenched it to the left. A metallic click sounded, and the door creaked open. He stepped out into the hall. Still, Cruim did not move.
It entered his mind to put his uncle inside the cellar, but with the way the man was curled in on himself, blood dripping in strings of saliva from his mouth, Ewan knew it would do little good. His uncle would be no threat. Not when he was dying.
Instead, he crouched by his uncle and gently squeezed his shoulder. “May God forgive ye for what has been done, Uncle.”
Ewan straightened and backed away before charging up the stairs to where the sounds of battle increased—the clashing of weapons and armor and cries of war. A line of warriors appeared in front of him, backlit by light, so they were set in the shadows. At least a dozen men ran to him. Too damn many to take on with a single dagger.
Ewan gritted his teeth and held his ground. If saving Faye lay beyond them, he’d kill every damn one to get to her.
“Sir?” A familiar voice said.
The men stopped.
“Monroe?” Ewan squinted as he raced forward, so the light washed over the faces of his trusted advisor and strongest warriors.
Monroe’s dark eyes went wide. “What’s happened—”
“Moiré,” Ewan ground out.
“We know.” Monroe’s lips thinned beneath his black beard. “Lady Sutherland wrote me a note telling me what happened. We found blood in the cottage she sent us to, and we assumed it had to do with Cruim. Lady Sutherland’s horse was still bound near the hut, as well as Mistress Moiré’s.”
“Where is Faye?” Ewan demanded.
Monroe’s brows shot up. “She’s no’ here?”
Ewan shook his head. “No’ that I’m aware. She wasna brought to the cellar.” He turned his attention to his warriors. “Most of ye search here and take every traitor prisoner. Send two men to Dunrobin to look for Faye. Monroe, ye come with me.”
The warriors split up in immediate compliance with their orders.
“Where are we going?” Monroe asked as Ewan led him through the Great Hall of the manor to the large doors exiting outdoors.
“To the cliff,” Ewan said as a savage pain twisted through him. “Where Lara died.”
Where Faye most likely was. He only hoped they would not be too late.
“There’s something I think ye should know.” There was an almost gentle note to Monroe’s voice that made Ewan pause and regard him with concern.
“What is it?” Ewan’s heart locked mid-beat as he waited for his friend to respond.
“In the letter Lady Sutherland wrote, she confessed something I think ye should know.” Monroe glanced down at his hands, then lifted his gaze to Ewan. “She’s with child.”
23
The air was tinged with the brininess of the sea, and the hushed roar of crashing waves sounded in the distance. Faye continued to put one foot in front of the other, allowing Moiré to guide her to the unknown location.
The dense forest cleared away, revealing a cliff that spilled out to a vast sea.
Fear clutched at Faye’s heart, and she faltered. “Where are we? Where is Ewan?”
“I’ve spent my life being weak.” Moiré pressed the point of the blade to Faye’s stomach.
The tip pricked Faye’s skin beneath her kirtle and made her continue the slow march forward.
“I’m the daughter of a second son.” Moiré gave a mirthless laugh. “Destined to be a servant to my kin for the rest of my life. Do ye know that babe in yer belly will have a better advantage in every way than I’ve ever had?”
Faye hated that she couldn’t put her hands over her belly to protect her unborn child. It left her so much more vulnerable than she’d ever realized possible. “So, ye’ll kill me? And Ewan? Why? For power?”
Moiré pulled in a deep breath, her chest puffing with pride. “To be chieftain.”
Faye gaped at Moiré. “Will ye kill yer own da as well?”
A pained look crossed Moiré’s face. “He was already dying.” It was said so defensively, Faye knew Moiré had a hand in helping his illness along.
“It was why I planned to do this,” Moiré continued. “I didn’t have to hurt ye as well until ye told me ye were with child.” Tears welled her large brown eyes. “I tried to save ye, but the tea I made ye dinna work.”
The tea.
Horror chilled Faye to her bones. “Ye were trying to kill my child?”
“Dinna look at me like that,” Moiré snapped. “As though I’m a monster. I couldna allow an heir to come between me and the chieftainship. And I dinna want to kill ye.”
They were near the cliffs now. The wind gusted with more force, billowing against their faces, and carrying with it the salty mist of the ocean.
“And now ye think ye have to kill me?” Faye’s voice was quiet, but her thoughts screamed through her brain with a multitude of scena
rios to free herself.
Moiré nodded and sniffled. “I’m sorry.”
“Why lie to me about Ewan?” Faye demanded. “The letters…” She shook her head. “I know about them.”
Moiré thinned her lips. “So ye wouldna question why he dinna return to Dunrobin, so I could find a way to give ye a tea that would work with the new herbs I took from Sorcha’s garden.” She gave a frustrated sigh. “I tell ye, Faye, I was trying to save ye. But after we came across the blood, after ye demanded to be answered…I couldna keep it a secret any longer.” Her arm at Faye’s back tensed. “Especially no’ with that babe in yer womb.”
“What about Ewan?” Faye choked.
“He’s alive,” Moiré offered graciously. “For now. Cruim insisted he stay a prisoner rather than kill him outright. My da has a tender heart. One that willna beat long enough to see all this through, I wager.”
Faye staggered under the force of her relief. Ewan was alive. Her thoughts flicked back to the cottage. Why had there been so much blood?
Could Moiré know for certain that he’d not been killed when she’d been with Faye the entire time?
She slowed her pace as they neared the edge. The deep blue sea stretched endlessly beyond, and the breaking waves over the rocks below filled their ears. Faye’s heart slammed in her chest, its rapid-fire beat so loud, it drowned out nearly everything else. It was a pain more vicious than anything she’d ever felt.
Her mother’s words rushed back to her, the reminder that the glory of love was worth the pain of loss. Such a thought hadn’t fully registered with Faye. Not until that very moment.
But she wouldn’t think of Ewan being dead. She couldn’t.
“What about Lara?” Faye asked.
Moiré narrowed her eyes. “Ye’re too clever. Mayhap, ’tis a good thing ye’ve interrupted my plans.” She lifted her shoulder. “Lara’s womb finally took root.”
It was too much. Faye’s feet stopped moving forward. She wouldn’t die like Lara had.
“Walk.” Moiré prodded Faye in the belly with the dagger, her hand at Faye’s back pressing even harder.
This was exactly the reason Faye’s eldest brother had insisted his sisters train so hard. To ensure they were never in such a position. She couldn’t think through the moves too much, not when each thought resulted in a new way everything could go so horribly wrong. She had to trust that she was strong enough, skilled enough. Or the cost would be her life as well as that of her unborn child.
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